


Dragon Lightning

by z_falk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blaise Zabini is a Good Friend, Bottom Draco Malfoy, DA - Freeform, Desk Sex, Dolores Umbridge Being an Asshole, Drarry, Dumbledore's Army, Experienced Harry, F/F, F/M, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Gen, Harry's really hot, Hogwarts Sixth Year, M/M, Multi, Nerd Draco Malfoy, Political Intrigue, Sexy Harry, Shy Harry, Stuck in the past, Teacher-Student Relationship, Time Travel, Time Turner (Harry Potter), Virgin Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-01-12 02:59:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18437630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/z_falk/pseuds/z_falk
Summary: ‘Where are we?’ said Potter.I glanced around, disoriented. 'Don't talk to me. We are not friends, just because we f*cked.''Malfoy.'Those dirty round windows, and those thick timber beams overhead. ‘Hog’s Head,’ I said.But then I got a good look at the view outside – snowy fields? – and the flickering lantern swaying from the ceiling – bit old fashioned – and the old man in the corner leering at Potter wore an all-leather cloak with dragon’s teeth hanging off it.From somewhere in the back, was the unmistakable sound of f*cking.‘This … isn’t right,’ said Potter.‘I might have miscalculated,’ I said, holding the time turner delicately in my hand.As we watched, it disintegrated into dust.‘Was that supposed to happen?’ said Potter, nervously.I levelled him with a stare, and tried not to panic.F*ck.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sixth year AU
> 
> Slightly different, new world … darker Hogwarts and magical community  
> Explicit sex scenes  
> Strong adult language  
> I draw things, too. My instagram - z.e.falk - if you want to have a lookee

One 

 

There was an owl pecking my forehead.

 

I stirred underneath my silk blankets, my breath sleep-warm and slow. It sat on my chest, its talons digging through my pyjamas.

 

‘Fuck off.’

 

Peck. Peck, peck.

 

‘Ow.’

 

Peck.

 

‘Will you stop.’

 

_Peck._

 

It broke the skin.

 

‘Argh.’ I jolted upright, pushing the owl off. The dorm was in almost complete darkness. There was a rustling from my left – Vincent’s bed.

 

‘S’matter?’ he said.

 

‘Nothing.’ I pressed my hand to the blood welling up on my forehead.

 

‘Then shut up,’ he said.

 

I glared into the dark. ‘You shut up.’

 

‘Both of you shut up,’ Blaise hissed, his voice hoarse from sleep.

 

I let the owl hop up onto my shoulder, and I staggered out of the dorm. The stone steps were freezing underneath my bare feet, and I pattered quickly out into the deserted common room. Light flickered from the fireplace, and I shuffled towards the warmth, yawning.

 

The owl pecked my ear, and I lost it. The owl wasn’t even mine. It was some damned strange snowy owl, with a gleam to her amber eyes.

 

‘Get off me.’ I shrugged violently, and she flew off my shoulder. ‘Give me the letter and never return.’

 

She perched on the mantle above the fire, ruffling her feathers. The letter tied to her leg was rolled and tied with red ribbon, and sealed with gold wax.

 

I frowned and snatched the letter off her.

 

It wasn’t a letter.

 

It was an invitation.

 

To join a secret society, only known in whispered rumours around the school as the DA. The DA, I was sure, was headed by Potter.

 

I turned the invitation over in my fingers. The parchment was thick; fancy. The presentation was too classy for anything Potter could come up with.

 

Those whispered rumours said the DA was involved in the deposition of blood-purist Umbridge from her position as Headmistress of the school last year.

 

My family was directly involved in repairing her reputation (and funds) to get her back on top at the Ministry.

 

This made no sense.

 

Unless it was a trap.

 

I chewed my nails, pacing in front of the fire. I could join, find out what I could, and then mess with them and turn them in.

 

I snorted, a grin creeping over my face.

 

But then, an image of Potter bloomed in my mind, and I froze my pacing, my gaze on my bare feet, and I lost all capacity for sensible thought.

 

Having anything to do with this secret society and Potter was not in my life plan.

 

I scribbled a _no, piss off_ on the back of the invitation, and sent it back.

 

________________

 

 

Weak streaks of morning sunlight filtered through my lashes. I sat cross legged on my bed, blinking slow over my transfiguration draft. Very firmly, I did not think about the secret society invitation.

 

I was not curious.

 

I was a Malfoy. Intelligent. Ambitious. Utterly ruthless. And giving zero fucks about anything to do with Potter, Gryffindors, or some futile crusade to change conditions for muggleborns and halfbloods.

 

Early morning bird song filled my ears. Blaise swore a string of curses as he dug through his school things, looking for his spare tie. Snape’d kill him if he showed up to breakfast without it.

 

I plugged my ears with my fingers, frowning at my draft. I could still the bird song, and Blaise’s damned ranting.

 

‘Who the fuck has taken my fucking tie?’ Blaise’s face flushed red. He rooted through his trunk.

 

A pair of his socks hit me in the face.

 

‘OK,’ I said, ‘if that happens ever –‘

 

A pair of his Calvin Klein underwear missed my head by an inch.

 

The thing with my house – and I freaking love these guys – but if you show one speck of weakness, you’ll get shredded. Last year Gregory caught me conjuring dancing shadow puppets for a crying first year, and I told him I’d been trying to show the kid the Slytherin war cries and dances, and I just couldn’t stand the sound of the kid’s whimpering. You know, it was my duty, as prefect. I still got called mummy for the next six months.

 

Blaise was in love with this pair of underwear. With careful deliberation, I picked up my wand, levitated the underwear, and lit them on fire with a wordless spell.

 

‘What!’ Blaise leapt over to the burning underwear. ‘Damn it, Draco.’

 

Vincent and Greg started dancing around the burning underwear. Good men. I guess they’d gotten into the coffee early.

 

Blaise shoved me. ‘You need to get laid, you fucking uptight, squinty-eyed virgin.’

 

I flicked ash off my robes. Blaise kept up a stream of insults about my sexual preferences – or lack thereof – which I coldly ignored. When he started prodding me in the chest, though, and compared me to Longbottom – worse, he said, ‘ _even Longbottom’s fucked, and see how relaxed he is now, you utter icy bitch_ ,’ I felt my lip curl.

 

I turned my back on him, before he could see, carefully packing my satchel. ‘How has this rant found its way to my bed?’

 

‘Look at my Calvins. This wouldn’t happen if you would just fuck, like the rest of us.’

 

‘Irrelevant,’ I said. ‘Anytime you throw underwear at my head, regardless of my fucking or not, I’m going to burn them.’ Satchel packed, I slung it over my shoulder. The thing was groaning under the weight of books. I arched an eyebrow. ‘Besides, some of us have standards.’

 

‘You’re unnatural.’

 

‘Blaise, you’re making me blush.’

 

‘Shit,’ he said, smoothly ignoring me, ‘I’d fuck you myself if I didn’t think I’d get my cock frozen off.’

 

I levelled him with a cold gaze. ‘That sounds like motive enough for me.’

 

Blaise swept me up and down with a scrolling look; from my carefully controlled face to my expensive dragon-hide boots, tightly laced. These looks had been coming with increasing frequency and were getting harder to ignore. He nibbled his bottom lip, his eyes heavy lidded. Horny bastard.

 

I thrust my spare tie at him. ‘Breakfast. Let’s go.’

 

We made to go down the stairs.

 

Only problem was, a snowy owl stood in the doorway, blocking our exit.

 

This time it was a torn scrap of paper, and it had one word on it.

 

_Unacceptable._


	2. Two

 

‘Care to share?’ said Blaise.

 

I shot him a glance, screwing up the scrap of paper. I lit it on fire the same way I’d done his underwear.

 

Blaise jumped back from the licking flames. ‘ _Will you stop doing that_?’

 

In this verbal game of chess, I said, ‘no.’

 

I pushed past the owl, striding ahead of the others. When I reached the Great Hall I sucked in a deep breath and swaggered in, my chin tilted just so. My gaze stayed firmly away from the Gryffindor table.

 

Pouring myself an orange juice and dishing out scrambled eggs and buttered toast, I tried to still my whirring mind.

 

I couldn’t – think. I couldn’t make sense of why … I needed answers.

 

And coffee. Merlin, I needed coffee.

 

Blaise sat down next to me, slightly out of breath. We reached for the coffee at the same time, and promptly had a silent but furious fight over who got it first. Blaise won, being half a foot taller and still aggressively-pissed from the burnt Calvin’s incident.

 

While I waited for him to finish pouring himself a huge mug, my gaze involuntarily flickered over to the Gryffindor table.

 

I swept it once. Twice.

 

He wasn’t there.

 

I toyed with my napkin, checking again. There was Weasley and Granger, talking intimately close.

 

But no Potter.

 

‘Who you looking for?’ said Blaise.

 

‘Your dignity,’ I said. ‘Can’t find it.’

 

‘Not that I care,’ he said, ‘but what crawled up your arse this morning?’

 

He passed me the coffee pot.

 

I took it, my gaze lowered. ‘Nothing’s ever crawled up my arse. You know that.’

 

‘Is that your version of an apology?’ he said.

 

‘I’m not very good at those.’

 

‘Yeah, I’ve noticed.’

 

‘Sorry,’ I muttered.

 

I hesitated, pretending to focus on the black coffee swirling into my mug. Blaise was wickedly intelligent and excellent company, but he was more loyal to his family’s ideals than even me.

 

I couldn’t trust him not to snitch, if I told him I’d been asked to join the DA.

 

‘Tell me something,’ I said, my voice low. I delicately placed the coffee pot back. ‘If you needed to get a Gryffindor to blab about something, who’d you go to?’

 

Blaise didn’t even bat an eye. ‘Finnigan.’

 

‘Isn’t he dating Potter?’ I said. I pressed down the impulse to clap my hand over my mouth. I should not know – nor care – about who Potter was currently dating.

 

Blaise sipped, leaning back, staring at me.

 

Fuck’s sake.

 

Potter was the definition of hot commodity. He was never _not_ dating someone.

 

‘They broke up,’ said Blaise, his mouth hidden behind his coffee mug. ‘Finnigan blabbed to the tabloids. Very public fight and break up on the quidditch pitch.’ He sipped again. ‘Honestly, Draco, lift your nose out of the books once in a while.’

 

‘Some of us care about school.’

 

‘Yeah, too much.’

 

I shouldered my satchel. ‘Excuse me, I have an advanced transfiguration class to get to.’

 

‘Nerd.’

 

‘You love me.’ I strode away to get out of earshot before he could reply.

 

I made it almost to the huge double entrance doors before Blaise stood up and shouted, ‘I want to fuck you, Draco. Big difference.’

 

I froze, feeling a thousand sets of eyes on the back of my neck. Then, I continued onwards to a round of catcalls and applause.

 

OK. Point to Blaise.

 

___________________

 

 

Somehow, talking to Finnigan lead to kissing.

 

There I was, hesitating approaching him and his little squad of Gryffindor friends outside the transfiguration classroom, and the next he was dragging me into a nearby alcove and pushing me up against the wall tapestry.

 

‘You’re very presumptuous,’ I said, holding myself a little stiffly.

 

‘You don’t want it?’

 

My gaze dropped to his parted lips. Finnigan had a slightly feral look to him, his uniform rumpled, and a certain set to his jaw. Guy was a mess.

 

‘We’re going to be late to class,’ I said.

 

He curled his fingers hard in my hair. ‘You care?’

 

I eyed him. He had uneven dimples and a cowlick of sandy hair hanging in his guileless, brown eyes. I’d never noticed how good he smelled.

 

‘McGonagall said we’d be covering exam material today,’ I murmured. Even I had ethical standards. Finnigan was clearly still off balance from his breakup. I shouldn’t be taking advantage. I was so good at wheedling information, I didn’t need to. I'd try someone else.

 

He hovered, his mouth not quite touching mine. His warm hands took mine, entwining our fingers together. ‘I’ll get you notes.’

 

Then, his mouth was on mine, hot and skilled.

 

He tilted his chin, deepening the kiss before I was ready. His tongue flickered lightly against my lips.

 

His fingers were back in my hair. He pushed me harder against the wall. Every inch of him was pressed against me. He rubbed his hard cock against my thigh. His breath fluttered, quick and hot, and I let him do his thing.

 

I got why Potter had dated him for so long – a record six months – if this was what Finnigan’s kisses were like. He tugged my shirt free from my belt, and he ran a possessive, warm hand over my stomach.

 

He drew back, breathless and hazy eyed. ‘I always wanted to ream your mouth out, Malfoy.’

 

I frowned, not understanding.

 

He brushed his thumb gently over my bottom lip. ‘Yes?’

 

There was no way I was going to admit I didn’t know what he was talking about. Something must’ve shown on my face, though, because he pulled back further, a furrow between his sandy brows and his lips quirked.

 

‘You been fucked in the mouth before?’

 

‘Oh. _Oh_.’ I let my gaze slide to the side, going stiff again.

 

‘That’s a no.’ His eyes were wide and dark. ‘Sucked cock at all?’

 

‘Wouldn’t you like to know.’

 

He let out a huff of amusement. ‘Are you – _are you a virgin_?’

 

‘No.’

 

‘You so are.’ Glee spread over his face. ‘People always said you were, but I didn’t _believe_ them. Wow. How have you not been fucked yet?’

 

I folded my arms. ‘It’s not funny, Finnigan.’

 

‘It’s hilarious.’

 

‘You have the brain of a gnat.’

 

‘It’s fucking hot.’ He groaned into my shoulder, his cock hot and throbbing through the layers of clothes. ‘I’ll be your first.’

 

He kissed me again, hungrily, and my words got stifled off. I wriggled against him, trying to dislodge him. He drew back.

 

‘Finni – mmph.’

 

His tongue lightly licked the inside of my mouth. I was held prisoner between this tapestry and a very horny Finnigan.

 

‘Finnigan,’ I said, out-of-breath, and ducking my head to the side. He sucked my earlobe and waves of hot pleasure – the most intense I’d ever felt – washed through me. I let out a low moan. It was so breathy and slutty and adult; I didn’t know I could make such a noise.

 

I clutched my fingers into his robes, holding him closer. He nuzzled the pulse in my neck. I felt the first hardening between my legs.

 

No. No, I needed to focus. I shoved Finnigan off, panting. I leant against the wall, hands in my hair as I watched Finnigan right himself.

 

‘Let’s talk, yeah?’ I said.

 

That expression on Finnigan’s face. Was he hurt? It was gone, almost as quickly as it’d come.

 

‘Why?’ he said, adjusting his trousers.

 

‘I’m curious about you.’

 

‘Pffft.’ He actually laughed. Like, deep from the belly laugh.

 

I waited for him to finish.

 

‘You’re interesting,’ I pressed, stepping forward. ‘They say you’re basically in charge of the secret society that –‘

 

‘That’s nonsense,’ he said.

 

Silence stretched out between us.

 

Shit. I’d fucked that up.

 

Finnigan stepped into my space again. He kissed me, a little rough. ‘Want me to teach you how to take cock in the mouth?’

 

‘I,’ I said. I swallowed. ‘We don’t have time. We should get to class, before McGonagall sends someone looking.’

 

He made a small sound, like he was holding back a cough.

 

‘Did you just laugh at me again?’ I said.

 

‘Of course.’

 

‘I’ve cursed people for less, Finnigan.’

 

He answered me with a possessive kiss. He hand was back on my stomach. He was so into it, it came as a shock when he started crying.

 

His tears splashed, hot and fast, onto my cheeks. I stiffened. He kept kissing, like he wasn’t basically sobbing against my while he continued to kiss and lick my mouth.

 

‘Um,’ I said.

 

Finnigan drew back and hiccupped. His cheeks were flushed pink, his eyes huge and teary. ‘Why are you as rigid as a board?’

 

I pressed my lips together – they’d been hanging open – and I frowned hard at a stain on Finnigan’s red and gold tie. ‘Listen, maybe … maybe you need to skip class and go out to the Three Broomsticks and drink a bunch of gigglewater and eat some good food and – and bitch about exes. Rather than make out, right now.’

 

He wiped his face on his shoulder. Guy was a walking disaster. His eyebrows were high on his forehead. ‘That actually sounds amazing, Malfoy. Yeah.’

 

‘Not with me,’ I said slowly.

 

Finnigan’s eyebrows went higher.

 

‘I’ll definitely kick you when you’re down,’ I rushed out. ‘I’d be the worst choice for cheering you up. I mean with Thomas or something.’

 

He wiped his nose with his sleeve.

 

‘You want me to tell you about the DA,’ he said. ‘Getting me drunk would be a good way to do it.’

 

Very carefully, I made myself not react. ‘It would.’

 

We gazed at each other.

 

‘But you’re not going to,’ he said.

 

I examined my nails. ‘I have other methods of making people talk. Besides, if I get you drunk, I have to deal with a drunk you, so …’

 

He straightened his tie and pushed his cowlick out of his eyes. ‘No one’s going to talk. You may as well get me drunk.’

 

I tilted my head. ‘Are you asking me out?’

 

He gave a little smile.

 

‘Because,’ I said, ‘I’m way too good for you.’

 

‘Please, you don’t even know how to suck cock.’

 

‘No,’ I said quietly.

 

There was another long silence, and I strove not to break it.

 

‘Why do you want to know about the DA anyway?’ he said. ‘What wily plan do you have, Malfoy?’

 

‘You don’t know?’ The words were out of my mouth before I could think.

 

He shrugged.

 

I frowned, running my hands through my hair.  If Finnigan, one of Potter’s right-hand men, didn’t know about me being invited, then something weird was definitely going on.

 

‘Malfoy?’ said Finnigan. His voice seemed to echo from a great distance. ‘You look like you’re going to murder someone.’

 

‘It’s adorable,’ he said.

 

I pushed past him. ‘Excuse me, I need to find a snowy owl.’

 

 


	3. Three

I checked the owlery.

 

No snowy owl.

 

The owls’ favourite tree next to Hagrid’s hut (Hagrid slipped them treats all the time).

 

Nope.

 

The Great Hall rafters.

 

No.

 

There was Lovegood and Weasley doing an R rated make out session on the Hufflepuff table – honestly, those two are the biggest exhibitionists – but no snowy owl. Lovegood and Weasley were so absorbed in each other, they didn’t notice me staring, open mouthed and frozen, on the threshold.

 

The Weasley girl moaned, her red hair tumbling over her face, as Lovegood did something under her skirt. Her pale thighs were exposed in the cold air, trembling from pleasure.

 

The sight of them together sunk down into me, hot and deep.

 

Lovegood glanced up, and we locked gazes. She continued to work her hands underneath Weasley’s skirt. I’d never seen her so focused.

 

I waited for Lovegood to shout at me, or stop.

 

She did neither.

 

She bit her lip, her cheeks flushed, and pulled Weasley’s skirt up higher, revealing curves and no underwear.

 

My lips parted. My breath quickened. I stepped forward. I’d never seen …

 

Lovegood smirked slightly. I dragged my gaze away.

 

Firmly, I pushed desire down.

 

I stalked out of the Great Hall, hands shoved in my pockets.

 

I’d missed transfiguration for nothing. Rain battered the windows. The bell rang and a crush of kids swarmed out of the classrooms as the lessons ended.

 

I needed to go to the source of the problem. It had to be Potter, right?

 

Bloody Potter.

 

Problem was, Potter was constantly surrounded by a huge buffer of friends. Approaching him would be a production. Unless I could draw him out.

 

Second problem; Potter seemed to be missing from classes this morning.

 

He’d been absent from the crowd of Gryffindors outside transfiguration. He’d not been at breakfast. I’d not seen him in the halls.

 

Third problem? I did _not_ want to approach him. I didn’t want him knowing he’d gotten me curious. I didn’t want him knowing I was thinking about him, or toying with the idea of hearing him out about his little rebel society.

 

I was a Malfoy.

 

And Potter … was going to be screwed over by the Ministry or thrown into prison, soon. The Ministry was determined to nab him for something, and stop the low-key resistance to their reforms (which everyone knew Potter was behind) (wily bastard that Potter was, he’d not yet been actually caught or proven doing anything) (it was almost impressive).

 

If I got caught – shit, even if rumour got out – that I was getting friendly with Potter, it would end my father. The shock and shame would kill him.

 

And there was the niggling feeling I was wrong about this all being from Potter.

 

That fancy invitation. Finnigan not knowing about me being invited. The sheer intelligence of this. It didn’t exactly scream Potter.

 

I chewed my lip, weaving between the crush of kids. My mind was so deep in thought, I didn’t notice as the halls emptied, and I’d strayed down the corridor that changed its mind about where it led every Tuesday.

 

Stumbling, I reached an empty courtyard sheltered from the rain by large trees, whose roots were so big and old they cracked the cobblestoned ground.

 

‘Crap.’ I got my feet underneath me just in time to stop myself falling flat on my face.

 

I didn’t look up until there was a ruffle of feathers and a low hoot.

 

Up in the branches of the tree was the damned snowy owl.

 

We blinked at each other.

 

The owl was way too wide awake and composed.

 

I frowned, backing away from it. This was suspiciously easy.

 

Obviously, a trap.

 

‘What?’ I said, folding my arms. ‘Another invite? Or are you watching me?’

 

The owl tilted her head, her amber eyes steady.

 

‘OK,’ I said. ‘You want to play games? We’ll play games.’

 

I rummaged through my satchel and pulled out a galleon. I turned my back on the owl and muttered a tracking enchantment on the coin, wrapped it carefully in my silk, monogrammed handkerchief.

 

‘That’s my response,’ I said tying my handkerchief parcel to her leg. ‘Take it to your owner.’

 

She hooted, this time shrilly, and took off into the rain.

 

And I followed the tugging sensation in my navel from the tracking enchantment.

 

The halls were deserted. The only sounds were the echoing shouts from teachers giving lessons and my boots tapping over the flagstone floors, and that rain, even harder now, on the windows. A clock ticked, somewhere to my left. And another, out of sync with the first.

 

Anxiety coiled inside, and I breathed through it, focusing on tracking the owl. I’d missed transfiguration and charms. The teachers would want to know why I’d missed the mornings’ lessons.

 

That was all this swirling tightness inside me was from. I was _not_ worried to find out to who the owl was headed.

 

Up one flight of stairs, then another.

 

It was in the library now, and I ran towards the doors, my satchel thumping against my hip.

 

Then the tracking enchantment stopped.

 

I screeched to a halt, right outside the library, clutching a stitch in my side.

 

_The tracking enchantment stopped?_

 

Not just a tracking enchantment. Mine.

 

My tracking enchantments are fucking fabulous. To break one off you’d have to be so powerful you’d be a walking magical beacon. No student here could do it. Or if they could, they’d be top of the damn class, and the only kid higher than me in grades was Granger.

 

I hesitated. Then stalked inside the library.

 

The rows and rows of towering tall bookshelves stood in complete silence. I breathed in the scent of parchment and dust, saw Pince hovering a pile of books in front of her. And then, finally, in a study nook with three round tables by an open window, the snowy owl.

 

The snowy owl sat on a table that looked like it’d been hastily abandoned. Rain rolled off her white feathers, dripping everywhere. The table groaned under the weight of books – all left open, and marked up with pink post-its – and an abandoned half-eaten apple, browning at the edges.

 

One chair was pushed out at an angle, and when I sat down in it, was still warm.

 

I glanced around, my gaze straying to every shadow, every flutter of movement from moths and swaying light from lanterns.

 

The owl hooted, and pecked at something on the table. She did it again, demanding my attention.

 

My galleon. It was there. Mangled and smoking.

 

And sitting on top of an ancient, yellowed newspaper clipping.

 

I bent close, reading the headline.

 

‘ _Flobberworms plague Surrey gardens_. What?’

 

The owl practically rolled her eyes, and pecked again.

 

In the bottom corner of the clipping, half cut off and in tiny print, was _Purist Decree Lobbied; Mudbloods to be Banned from Hogwarts_?

 

And there was a photo of the committee pushing for the decree. In it, front and centre, and the spitting image of me, my great-great grandfather. He glared at the camera, tossing his blond hair over his shoulder.

 

‘OK,’ I said slowly, ‘what the actual fuck?’


	4. Four

I rifled through the books on the table.

 

It was the most mundane-looking book there, bound in greying leather, without any kind of gilding or flair. A History of Ministry Politics.

 

_… the decree to deny muggleborns entry into Hogwarts was almost passed; held back by only one vote, vetoing …_

 

Snore. I skimmed ahead.

 

_… Serpens Malfoy was the driving force behind the decree, laying out reason after reason, but it all came down to one major point: muggleborns present a danger to the discovery of our magical community. Malfoy could not be reached for interview …_

 

There was a crash, far outside the library. I jumped. I slammed the book shut, shrunk it down and stashed it into my pocket.

 

Another crash. Raised voices.

 

I ran out.

 

The closer I got to the source of the commotion, the more crowded the halls became. Only, there wasn’t only students and professors. Ministry workers, some with wands out and drawn, some with clipboards, all grim-faced, towered over the kids.

 

Greg and Vincent were leaning against a doorframe, watching the commotion, giggling together.

 

‘Hey,’ I said. ‘What’s happening?’

 

Vincent prodded my shoulder. ‘Where’ve you been?’

 

I batted his hand away. ‘Why are there ministry workers here?’

 

‘Draco,’ said Greg, waggling his eyebrows. ‘Heard you let Finnigan pop your cherry in front of the advanced transfiguration class.’

 

‘What?’ I said, distracted. ‘Boys. _What is happening_?’

 

Greg shrugged. ‘Dunno. They’re collecting all the muggle scum or something.’

 

I frowned, and ducked away from them. I pushed my way through to the grand entrance.

 

The crowd here was thick, and hazy smoke hung in the air from a recent duel. There was a huge shouting match happening at the giant double doors. One of the voices sounded like …

 

Potter.

 

I scaled a suit of centaur armour, to get a good look. It wobbled and creaked, but it held. I wrapped my hands around the silver ear armour and balanced on the back.

 

I was rewarded with the best view ever, through the clearing haze.

 

A small group of teens had been rounded up. A few of them I knew. Dean Thomas. Granger – Granger was trying to calm down Weasley. His red hair was askew, his mouth screwed up. But Weasley wasn’t the problem.

 

Potter stood on the threshold, feet planted wide, and wand dangling from his fingertips. He had a murderous look on his face.

 

Potter doesn’t do murderous looks by halves. He looks dangerous when he gets pissed.

 

Umbridge seemed to agree, because she wasn’t moving her wand away from Potter. ‘ _You interfere again, Potter, and I’ll have grounds to arrest you_.’

 

Umbridge jabbed her wand in his face, sparks flew out the end.

 

Potter didn’t flinch. He stood there, deliberately folded his arms, his jaw set. ‘Fine.’

 

‘Harry.’ Granger’s voice was hard edged, almost sharp. ‘No.’

 

My gaze swivelled to her. All I could see was the back of her bushy head.

 

‘Hermione,’ Harry said. ‘I’m not letting them take you. Any of you.’

 

Hermione said something back in response – something soft and inaudible – and I saw the tension in Potter’s face go up.

 

‘Please,’ she said.

 

There was something pink stuck in her bushy hair. I tried to get a better look.

 

The armour wobbled. ‘Crap,’ I said.   

 

I slipped. I scrambled, trying to keep a hold.

 

There was a point where I knew I was going to fall, and it was going to be spectacular, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

 

The whole giant suit of centaur armour came down with me. The crash echoed so loud, they probably heard it in France.

 

It was the kind of crash that just kept going. I skittered across the smooth floor on my side, and then on my front, ploughing through slithering chain mail and creaking chest plates, and rolling horseshoes – what the heck were horseshoes doing on a suit of armour? – and a wheezing helm that may or may not have been possessed.

 

By the time I came to a stop and did a quick once over to make sure I hadn’t died (nope, just horribly humiliated, it’s fine), and the entire assembled group stared at me open mouthed and in silence, and then started applauding, Umbridge and the group of muggleborns were gone.

 

Potter leaned over me, his face still thunderous, his glasses slipping down his nose. His dangerous-looking gaze lingered on my face, and then travelled down my neck, my chest, lower … and back up to my lips and then eyes.

 

‘Take a photo, why don’t you?’ I said.

 

He quirked his mouth, and offered me his hand.

 

‘Fuck off,’ I muttered.

 

I staggered upright and sidestepped the stray pieces of armour, and raced after Granger.

 

Umbridge, the ministry workers, and the group of muggleborns were halfway to the school gates by the time I caught up.

 

‘Hey, Miss Umbridge,’ I said, trying to act like I wasn’t curling up and dying inside, or sweaty from running, or out of breath.

 

Umbridge tugged Granger behind her, gripping her sleeve like an irate grandmother.

 

‘Draco. Thank you for that distraction,’ said Umbridge.

 

‘Oh, yeah,’ I said, shoving my hands in my pockets. ‘Glad to help.’ I pushed hair out of my eyes. ‘Um. I actually need to borrow Granger, just for a moment. She has the notes to half of our advanced transfiguration assignment.’

 

Granger shot me an indecipherable look. I raised my eyebrows.

 

‘Can’t do that, Draco,’ said Umbridge. ‘I’m sure Professor McGonagall will grant you extra time.’

 

It was then that I noticed Blaise was being hustled along by a sombre-faced ministry worker.

 

I blinked, confused. ‘Miss Umbridge, why is Blaise Zabini here?’

 

Umbridge followed my gaze.

 

Granger took the opportunity to press something into my palm. I glanced down half-heartedly, preoccupied by Blaise.

 

It was a crumpled, pink post-it. I stashed it away.

 

‘He’s a mudblood,’ said Umbridge.

 

‘No,’ I said stiffly. ‘We’re cousins, you idiot.’

 

Umbridge halted. Granger squeaked and nearly crashed into the back of her. ‘I beg your pardon?’

 

‘We’re cousins,’ I lied.

 

‘Yeah,’ said Blaise.

 

‘Cousins,’ said Umbridge slowly. Her gaze slid back and forth between Blaise’s dark skin, and my pastiest-of-pale skin.

 

‘Yes,’ I drawled. ‘Obviously. His father was second cousin to my aunt, on my father’s side, three times removed. It’s quite simple. We’re cousins. He’s a halfblood, at least. Your records are wrong.’

 

Umbridge stared at me with her toady eyes.

 

‘If I was a mudblood,’ said Blaise, his cheeks flushed angry red, ‘I’d walk myself out. Trust me.’

 

‘Do you really want to insult my cousin, Miss Umbridge?’ I said.

 

Without waiting for an answer, I grabbed Blaise’s hand and stalked back up the path to Hogwarts.

 

The entry hall was deserted now, and someone had magicked the centaur armour back together. I shoved Blaise up a set of steps and out of sight down a narrow hallway.

 

‘Don’t worry,’ I said, checking over my shoulder. ‘I’ll fix it. They won’t force you out.’

 

Blaise’s breath was warm on my ear. ‘How’re you going to fix it?’

 

‘I,’ I said. ‘I don’t know.’

 

‘Brilliant.’ A pause. ‘I can’t prove who my father was,’ said Blaise. ‘I mean, obviously he was a wizard. A powerful one. But, Umbridge’ll be back for me.’

 

I stared at him, chewing my lip. I thought, then, that maybe Blaise wasn’t as loyal to his family’s ideals as I’d assumed.

 

‘So,’ said Blaise, his voice gentle, ‘you should probably let me fuck you now, before I’m taken away forever.’

 

I shoved him and stalked off.

 

At least I had a few answers. Granger seemed to be leading this secret society, not Potter. Or, at the very least, she was the driving force behind trying to recruit me.

 

But Granger was gone now.

 

And Potter … wasn’t the one trying to get me onside. Something strange flopped in my stomach.

 

I grabbed out the pink post-it, and flattened it out.

 

She’d scrawled a date on it.

 

27 December 1895.


End file.
